Betrayal
by stitchcat
Summary: Alistair ponders his reasons for abandoning Carlisle in his time of need. ON INDEFINITE HIATUS.
1. Chapter 1

**Betrayal**

**Many thanks to my betas, BassmanOz and Givemesomevamp, and to lifelesslyndsey for her encouragement for this, my first attempt at a fan fic**

Disclaimer: All Twilight characters are the property of Stephenie Meyer

Young people today, they have no respect for their elders. None at all. It's disgraceful how they flaunt their bodies, their young, tight bodies with barely any clothing and metal in places it shouldn't be and ink all over them. They look like heathens, like Picts, like the savages of the South Seas. Disgraceful.

How am I supposed to work with all this _flesh _on display? It's disgusting! DISGUSTING! Do they not see how they summon the urges of evil-doers? Of those who cannot control themselves? Not me of course; no, not me. I am far too civilized to stoop to the level of the lurker in the corner of the square, the voyeur, the stalker. I do not frequent public houses with the sole aim of inebriation and gratification with whichever hole is open and willing. I am not ruled by my baser nature. I am a scholar, an academic, striving for knowledge in all things. I am merely distracted by these things of no consequence. That is all. I do not crave that young, sweet sex. That firm, muscled body. That tight, tight . . .

They think I don't know what they say about me, that I don't hear. They see me in the library every day, studying the more arcane aspects of my particular subject. They snigger at the clothes I wear – but in comparison to theirs are mine really so strange? The fashions of my time would not be appropriate now of course, but I find my present garb acceptable. There is nothing wrong with tweed – it is similar to the fabric I used to wear – and I have found that many academics fashion leather patches on the elbows to prevent wear. This is entirely sensible to prevent unnecessary mending, something which, of course, means contact with the great unwashed. This I try to avoid at all costs.

I was not always this way. When I was summoned to the great Clan meeting to discuss our support of Charles Stuart, I was excited. We would finally be able to gain our revenge against the English for the defeat of the rebellion of '15. Little did I know that the whole venture was doomed from the start. Bonnie Prince Charlie may well have had a claim to the throne, but he was a little man – no match for the English in terms of strategy and military might. After a dismal campaign we were left outnumbered at Culloden, where I would have died were it not for my maker. The bitch.

I remember the burn. I remember awaking to blood-red eyes and a seductive smile. I remember little else of that first year and for that I am grateful. The bitch ensured I was fed and gradually learned to moderate my behavior until she deemed me fit to be instructed in the real reason she had turned me. She toyed with me, she used and abused me, she forced me to do her bidding, rewarding me with prey if I did as I was bid. I had never found women attractive even though I knew I should, but the bitch convinced me beyond all doubt that women were the root of all evil - as indeed it states in the Bible, or at least it should.

When I was 5 years old I had had enough. We were in France at that time and it was a simple matter to dispose of her after I had made the acquaintance of a nomad named Laurent. He talked with me for days about our kind, of how to move among the humans without notice, of how to kill – before him I had no idea that one could kill a vampire. After all, I had suffered many dismemberments for not being able to rise to the bitch's occasion, and I had survived. It seemed fire was the key, and I made use of that knowledge as soon as I was able. The bitch burned. In hell, I hope.

I wandered, initially with Laurent, and then settled into society in England. I surprised myself at my ability to live amongst the enemy so easily, but I had no real memory of _why_ they were the enemy now. No, women were my enemy and I delighted in disposing of as many as possible. I found I fit into life as a Regency "buck" well. I encouraged the rakish behavior of those "bucks" too foolish to think for themselves, and positively thrilled at the decadence exhibited by all and sundry in the upper classes. It was then I met Carlisle Cullen, and fell in love for the first time.

Carlisle. A contradiction I still cannot fathom. He was a God, he was a doctor, he was a vampire and he loved humans. How could this be? I felt nothing but contempt for the cattle that surrounded me, even as they amused me, and I could barely stand to be in the same room as a female; yet here was Carlisle, my compassionate, loving, utterly unattainable man.

He did not stay long. I believe he was disgusted at the conspicuous consumption, the ostentation, the shallow and intellectually dead society I had surrounded myself with. I extracted a promise that we would see one another again, and let him go with hope that I might, one day, persuade him that intercourse outside of the marriage bed could be wonderful, and that as women were only necessary for breeding, we should ignore them and explore each other in the way that I longed to. Alas, it would be many years before I heard from him again and I used my visit to hide.

I had become increasingly obsessed with why women were so important to men. I had had several human conquests leave me because they were expected to provide heirs to a fortune, or because they had become beguiled with a vixen's glance. I delved deeper and deeper into research about the new enemy I had, even going so far as to observe mating habits and childbirth, but I was no closer to understanding what they had that was so important to human men. I did not understand how the udders were in any way attractive, how the hairy slit could possibly excite a man. I decided I would have to experiment further. To understand the female anatomy from the inside. To see if that would help.

In the autumn of 1888 I was living in London. I realized that this was the perfect place to conduct my experiments. The poverty and constantly fluctuating population assured me that the whores would not be missed, and that murder was so common the likelihood of discovery was small. I was wrong.

I began by accosting a whore and simply slitting her throat with a knife, just to see what the response would be. There was nothing to cause me any disquiet so I continued. Things became more complicated as the Police attempted to catch "the fiend of Whitechapel". I had to give up my plans halfway through several more times until I found my perfect specimen. She had her own room and I was able to dissect her as I wished. Eviscerate – what a wonderful word, it rolls off the tongue, it is almost onomatopoeic. I lost myself in gore, in the feel of flesh parting, of intestines running through my fingers, of removing the parts that make children and examining them closely. It still wasn't enough.

It wasn't until I left the hovel that I smelt it – vampire. I ran, of course. I had no wish to meet another of my kind after my disappointment with Carlisle. They caught me. One was a tracker, the other, the witch bitch, was the punisher. They said they came from the Volturi. They said my endeavors were causing problems, but that they were not here for me this time. They said this was merely a warning. They said that if Aro were here he could read every thought I had ever had, and that I was lucky it was only Jane who would punish me. Punish me she did. For three days she did. I burned and screamed and burned and screamed. If there was any reason to hate women, she was it.

Since then I have avoided contact with humans as best I can. Hence my current predicament listening to the young students below me. I still crave male flesh, so much, but I must be careful. I cannot risk the Volturi finding me. I cannot risk them taking me and subjecting me to the witch bitch again. I would ask for death first but I do not wish to die – I am too much of a coward for that, in direct contrast to my human life.

Then Carlisle arrives, as beautiful as ever. He asks me to help, to come to America to testify for his family. He crushes me with that – his family. He has collected a wife – A WIFE – and "children", one of whom mated with a human and produced female offspring. I agree, as I would agree to anything if he asked, but I am nervous. I do not wish to have the Volturi near me again, but my unrequited affection for Carlisle demands I at least attend.

I have been here three weeks. Three weeks of torture. Not only is Carlisle taken, but he has the most attractive coven I have ever seen. Emmett, Jasper and Edward – oh, Edward – are too good to be with those whores they call wives. I know Edward hears me thinking of all the things I would like to do to him and his brothers. He can hardly bear to be in the house with me now, even if I do spend all my time in the attic to avoid the taint of the females. I cannot stay here much longer. They have enough witnesses, why do they need me? If Aro were to read me he would see my hatred of the unnatural half-breed; that would not help Carlisle, and after all this I still wish to help him.

I am going to leave. I cannot do this anymore. Carlisle has betrayed me. He has a wife. He will never be mine. He has a family. He never asked me to be his family. He betrayed me, and now I shall betray him. But . . . I cannot allow myself to let him know. I will tell him I am afraid Aro wants me for a tracker. This way there may be some hope. Sometime.


	2. Chapter 2

**Betrayal**

Thank you to Vampireisthenewblack for beta duties. She shares my *ahem* slight obsession with Jack the Ripper, which I think we all know is where this story is going. She's going to keep me honest on all the details, I hope.

All characters belong to Stephenie Meyer

It has been fifty years since I left Carlisle to his fate. I am once again living in a part of London I thought I would never revisit, but something drew me here, some strange pull of fate, perhaps. I am in Whitechapel. Much improved from my last sojourn, but not entirely free of its past. There are still alleys and courts where thieves and whores practice their trades unaccosted by the authorities. The population is not as dense, and its complexion has changed somewhat, but the people remain the same. The lower classes, the unwanted, the poor and needy. All find their way here.

I have found it easy to fit in. In this day and age no-one is interested in their neighbor. I remain quiet and hidden, reclusive you might say, if you noticed me at all. I am, of course, connected to the outside world via the internet. It has everything I need from reading material to music to film. Instant communication with my contacts if I so desire, but I so rarely do desire. Desire has abandoned me. I live now mired in regret, unable to indulge in even fleeting fancies. This cannot go on.

I have heard, over the years, that Carlisle and his coven escaped the Volturi unscathed. I do not believe they will remain unscathed forever. Eternity is a long time even for a vampire, and revenge is a cruel mistress, she will not be denied.

I am uneasy with myself. I cannot help but remember what happened last time I lived here. The memories are, of course, as vivid as the events themselves, but are somehow lacking. It is my desire which is lacking. My desire for blood, for sex, for youth, for knowledge. Who could have fathomed that betrayal borne of love would be so destructive?

I have spent fifty years sinking deeper into a hole of my own making. Before I left for Forks I was bitter. Filled with a sense that women were the true root of all evil, that I was unfairly used by the Volturi. Both these things remain true, I will never waiver from my belief that the Volturi were simply amusing themselves with me. I was not the intended target that night, my torture was merely an amusing interlude for that little bitch. The tracker, Demetri, I can see now was as afraid of Jane as I was – and with good reason. She is a testament to psychopathy. Those who are damaged before the change remain damaged after it, but their affliction is multiplied a thousand-fold.

I wonder, now, how Carlisle copes with a wife who, when turned, was suicidal over the loss of her child. Or the blonde bitch, who was apparently gang-raped then "saved" by Carlisle as a mate for Edward. What possessed him? To turn a woman immediately after an attack by several men, then to expect her to willingly copulate with a stranger just because they are family? Yes, I may have mellowed slightly in my concern for some females, violence and grief affect us all, but I have certain suspicions about my love. I find it suspicious he spent 300 years "alone", but as soon as he created Edward he went on a spree. Might it be that Edward was taken not only as a companion, but as a potential lover? He would have been horrified at the suggestion of Greek love, no doubt.

But why, then, would Carlisle turn Esme? Was it her mothering instinct he found so appealing? Did he recognize he could never truly see Edward as a son, but he could provide at least one parental figure? Did he welcome him back from his "rebellious phase" with open arms, only to be disappointed to find Edward unchanged in all ways physical and emotional? Why, then, would he create Rosalie? I have come to believe that Carlisle deliberately chose damaged women. He would never expect sexual intercourse from a woman not only mourning the child she lost but three days earlier, after giving birth, but with a history of abuse. Rosalie was viciously raped – that would not lead to a healthy relationship with a boy only three months past his seventeenth birthday. One who was, moreover, from a time of strict moral values and a healthy belief in hell. What was he thinking?

Could it be that Carlisle has a desire for familial love, but also a desire for a love that dared not breathe it's name?

No, no. I cannot possibly be right in this. Rosalie found Emmett not a year after her change, and carried him to Carlisle to beg him to save the giant. Esme is undoubtedly the mother of the coven, but she must expect more of Carlisle after all this time.

Carlisle's other 'children' - they, too, are broken.

What of the psychic? She has no memory of herself. This indicates great trauma, enough to block her past. Something truly terrible must have happened to her. Her reluctance to do anything but shop and dance around, her inability to cope with any self-assessment, why did she chose Carlisle's family to join?

Her mate, the warrior, there is so much more to him than they all see. He is the most broken of them all, but yet the strongest. Now _he_ is a mystery I would love to solve, if ever I get the chance. I am well aware of the slight interest he gives off when certain men are around. He is drawn to soldiers like myself and Garrett. I would venture to guess he and Peter were intimate while in the Southern Wars. His mate could be mistaken for a boy, even. Interesting indeed.

Oh what is the use of this endless pondering? I will never find the answers to all my questions. I must simply try to rebuild myself as best I can. I fear it may be time to face my betrayal and divulge to Carlisle the real reason why I left him to face the wrath of the Volturi alone.

My atonement will begin with my history with the Volturi. I will tell him a tale of such depravity and gore it will chill him to his very core. I will tell him of my search for answers to a man's obsession with a woman. My experiments, my discoveries, my Autumn of Terror. I delved deep into squalor and filth. Down into the depths of depravity and opium dens, of men who dressed as women and gentlemen who hunted whores. The death of innocents and the suffocating fog of fear. I will tell him of how I reveled in the destruction I wrought, and of how it eventually had to end.

I will bear my blackened soul, and I pray my love will forgive me.


End file.
